


8 Ways

by herbailiwick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:51:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From R. McKinley's <a href="http://thoughtcatalog.com/2012/8-ways-to-say-i-love-you/">"8 Ways To Say I Love You."</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Worth a Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"1. Spit it into her voice-mail, a little slurred and sounding like the shot whiskey you downed for courage. Feel as ashamed as you do walking into work in last night's clothes. Wake up cringing for days, waiting for her to mention it."_

You've been together for a year and a half. He says it. You don't. 

He mainly says it when he's drunk and giddy and curling his hands around your shoulders, your neck, your thighs, his cheeks pink and eyes glowing and that sun-shining, earth-turning laugh of his coming to soothe your ears and warm your heart.

You try to see what happens if you drink to that end, if you'll feel more like saying it, if you'll care less, if it'll just tumble out because you'll have trouble keeping your endearments down like others have trouble keeping their liquor down, like Sam has trouble keeping his hands down when they come to find you and tempt you and you don't disappoint.

Sam's hands are nowhere. They'll be on his phone later, his phone which is probably on the night stand of some motel because maybe he's resting. Maybe he earned it after a long hunt. 

His voicemail message tells you he's Sam and that you should leave him a message. It's good advice, you think to yourself. You have your message.

Your voice slurs on it, like you'd kind of hoped it would. "I love you," you say, or almost say, and it feels warm in your mouth like an alcoholic burn, but cold in your throat after, like the first beer had been.

There are like four other things you want to say. 

A list of all the alcohol that brought you to this moment of glory, from the first beer to the last shot of whiskey you downed as his phone was still ringing.

That he would have liked the recipe you tried out tonight.

The way you miss those expansive, wandering hands.

How you hope he's safe and well.

You thought this would be freeing, would let loose some sort of tightly-bolted portrait of Karen so the rest of your heart could do something about Sam and his soft, "I love you"s. Instead, you sit there and exhale against the receiver in silence until the phone finally ends your call.

You don't forget what you did the next day, though part of you wishes you could. You wait for something to happen, for a shy voicemail reply thanking you that you might already find on your phone. There's nothing there except a saved message from him about a possible solution to Dean's predicament, saved because of the rawness in his voice as he choked up.

You wait for a call demanding an explanation, his voice breathy with excitement as he wonders if the two of you will be different together, softer, more certain. You don't have the answer to this either, so you're sort of glad he doesn't ask.

You wait for him to look at you with reproach the next time you see each other, for him to point out that you needed to drink your voice silly in order to say three simple words. When he visits, he's the same as he's always been.

You can't decide whether etiquette, secrecy, or lack of interest keep him from saying anything about it.

More importantly, you can't decide whether you're relieved, intrigued, or disappointed.


	2. Hot Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Sigh it into her mouth, wedged in between teeth and tongues. Don’t even let your lips move when you say it, ever so lightly, into the air. Maybe it was just an exhalation of ecstasy."_

He doesn't say it very often anymore. Not with his words, anyway. He says it with that little quirk of his lip, with the weight of the adoration in his eyes. He gave you most of the "I love you"s he had for free, and you put them in your heart one by one, but you didn't tell him you did, couldn't tell him you did, so he gave into the pattern of silence you'd set up and now you've got his smirk and his gaze, and all the other little things he'll do for you.

He swaggers out of the house with that smirk and that gaze on a hot afternoon with a beer you didn't have to ask for. He's only in a t-shirt, but he looks exposed and ready because he's usually so covered up, he usually isn't so sure and so keen and so convinced that Dean won't wake up from his nap.

You're in one of your own busted-up trucks, the sun waiting outside, adding heat, and he's there with soft lips and hands that toss your hat onto the dash and a patience as he tells you, "It's okay. Take a drink first. You really worked up a sweat."

And your mouth is full of your first swigs of beer, but you yank him close and kiss him, make him taste it, try to let him know how hot and how perfect he is and how much of a good time he's just signed himself up for.

He gasps into your mouth and swallows some of the beer he'd brought you, and he wraps those mammoth arms around you and pulls you in, and the door's still open, the sun on his back, and he's already starting to sweat, he has to be, but, hell, he's delicious, and so solid.

The beer goes flying out the open window, and you make a noise of protest, but he winds passionate fingers through your own limp grasp, and he presses you down across the seat, and giggles, actually laughs as he looks down.

He ducks down to tease your lips with a lick before claiming, his teeth dragging across your lower lip until you squirm and lift the other hand to find his grippable hair, and he works you into a pliable, needy state before panting against your lips in the heat and you want to say, "I love you," in the silence, but without wanting to break the silence.

So you say it as you cover his panting mouth with your own again, trying it out again. Maybe his phone never got the message. Maybe he's just a naughty boy who wanted to wait it out on the endearments until you found that bravery idjits are always convinced you exemplify.

It's far from a declaration. You still haven't found it.

You're not quite sure whether he gets it or not, whether he senses the words, tastes them against the beer and the heat, but you're almost sure he kisses you harder, leans over you just a little more, reminds you how open he'd be to your words if they'd had enough existence behind them.

If they'd been brave.


End file.
